The Fortune Hunter Read online

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  THE FORTUNE HUNTER

  A Signet Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2002 by Diane Farr Golling

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-0949-3

  A SIGNET BOOK®

  Signet Books first published by The Signet Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  SIGNET and the “S” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: May, 2002

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com

  To Risa

  1

  Bloody hell. It hadn’t worked.

  George Carstairs, Baron Rival, crumpled the letter with one fierce, spasmodic movement of his fist. He was tempted to toss the politely worded packet of bad news in the fire. He restrained himself from that irrevocable act, however, and pitched it instead onto the battered desk half hidden in the corner of his London flat. He would reread it later. After he had had time to think.

  He prowled from the fireplace to the window. From the window to the sofa. From the sofa to the desk. From the desk to the fireplace. The room was small and Lord Rival was not, so his pacing did little to vent his frustration. What now? What now? hammered in his brain like a tune he could not banish.

  What now, indeed. Everything took money, and he had none. He could not hire a staff and reopen the house. He could offer no relief to his struggling tenants. He could institute no reforms, purchase no advice, repair nothing, build nothing. Rye Vale had been ruined—not by him, but the responsibility was his to mend matters if he could.

  Well, he couldn’t.

  He had stayed in this damnably cramped flat long after the Season ended, trying to scramble together a loan. The rest of the aristocracy had deserted London and trotted down to Brighton or back to their own estates. He’d declined every invitation to accompany his friends and stayed on, sweltering in the summer heat, trying to accomplish what he dared not attempt while the gossiping ton was there to observe him.

  He’d approached every rich, social-climbing cit in London. You’d think that one of them, at least, would be eager to put a nobleman under obligation. But he soon discovered that a rake’s title is worthless to a social climber. His scandalous reputation had devalued the only real collateral he had to offer, since all unentailed portions of Rye Vale had been mortgaged long ago. His efforts, therefore, had borne no fruit whatsoever.

  George dropped into a wing chair before his tiny fireplace and rubbed his forehead tiredly. He had racked his brain for months and could think of nothing that he hadn’t already tried. So little, so little could be done without funds. Land management—faugh! The sweet, green grass of Sussex was tailor-made for sheep, but his father and grandfather had brought in too many sheep, too quickly. He supposed the tenants, turned out of their homes to make way for livestock, must have cursed his family. If so, the curse had certainly come home to roost. Rye Vale was a wasteland now, and Lord Rival a pauper.

  George’s hands clenched impotently on the arms of his chair. All that cash, all that lovely, lovely cash his greedy forefathers had raised—and for what? Just to squander at the gaming tables. Why, if he could have a tenth of it back, he would pour it into the land and change everything.

  It was a mistake to care deeply about something over which one had no control. He had inherited the title at the carefree age of twenty-two, and had managed to live twelve years in London without giving Rye Vale a thought. For twelve blissful, shallow, completely unmemorable years, he had drifted and smiled and sinned, hardening his heart against the inevitable day when the thought of home would rear its head. Sure enough, once the unwelcome specter had intruded, it gave him no peace. He longed for home now, chafed at his helplessness, and brooded incessantly about restoring Rye Vale’s prosperity. He had invented a dozen plans and improvements—any of which would work; none of which he could implement. What a joke.

  A mirthless smile twisted his features. A conscience was an inconvenient thing to acquire at the ripe old age of four-and-thirty. He wished he didn’t feel the weight of his responsibilities suddenly pressing on him. He wished he didn’t care so bloody much. He wished he didn’t care at all, as a matter of fact. It was a damned nuisance.

  What was a man’s conscience for? It did no good to recognize the path to perdition if you had to take the path regardless. What choice did he have? He had to have funds. There was no honorable way to acquire a fortune. He could draw the line at theft, embezzlement, and murder, but he was still left with the filthy path that lay before him: fraud.

  Disgust propelled him from his chair and set him to his restless pacing again. The notion of tricking an heiress into marriage turned his stomach, although he’d be hard-pressed to explain why. After all, his London existence had been a sham since the day he took up residence.

  He was the only man of his circle who had no servants. He polished his own boots and pressed his own linen, dusted his own furniture, made up his own fire every morning—on the days when he could afford coal. He despised his life, but anything was better than letting his friends suspect his shameful poverty.

  He’d spent many an evening dancing and smiling in some glittering ballroom or other, praying that the music and conversation would cover the sound of his stomach growling. He had always maintained his languid air of indifference as everyone went in to supper, and managed to nibble rather than gulp the hostess’s lobster patties and watercress sandwiches. So far as he knew, everyone believed that his jokes about a hand-to-mouth existence were no more serious than the jokes of every other man about town.

  He’d been a fraud all along. Why cavil at the prospect of this final deception? It was time to swallow his pride and face the obvious. It would take a fortune to replenish his estate. He could neither borrow it nor earn it. Very well, he must marry it.

  Lord Rival’s pacing led him back to his desk. There he h
alted, gazing absently at his neat stacks of bills and correspondence. The letter he had just crumpled perched incongruously atop his pencil box, the only item out of place. George Carstairs was a methodical man. He reached for it and automatically smoothed it open, setting it with the rest of his correspondence. His brow creased in a bitter frown.

  The path lay before him. He would harden his heart, bid farewell to regret, and start down it immediately. All he needed was a plan.

  He sat and sharpened a pen. After thinking for a few moments, he dipped his pen in the inkwell, pulled a sheet of foolscap toward him, and began jotting down a list.

  Lady Olivia Fairfax slipped silently into the bedchamber. She hesitated for a moment in the shadows, gravely regarding the limp figure huddled beneath the bedclothes.

  Edith whimpered in her sleep. “Ah, poor thing,” Olivia murmured, moving to the bed. She laid a cool hand on Edith’s forehead. Hot, but not fevered. She gently smoothed the tangled curls back from Edith’s battered face and spoke softly to her. “I’m a beast to disturb you, but I will be leaving soon and expect to be gone for some while. How are you feeling this morning?”

  The girl stirred, her pale brows contracting as awareness of pain returned. She opened the only eye she could. “Better, I think,” she croaked.

  It was obviously a lie. Olivia smiled and instantly resolved to stop thinking uncharitable thoughts about poor little Edith. She had assumed her sister-in-law was an idiot. Any female willing to marry Ralph had to be a fool, but Edith had proved to be, at the very least, a fool with a backbone.

  “Brave girl. I hope you shall feel better yet, once we force a little tea down you. Could you stomach some dry toast? Or perhaps a little gruel? I daresay it doesn’t sound very appealing, but I think it would do you good.”

  “Is it morning?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. Shall I draw the curtains?”

  “If you like.”

  Edith’s thin little whisper sounded unenthusiastic, so Olivia, crossing to the window, only pulled one of the heavy curtains back a little. Sunlight poured through the crack, returning color to the Aubusson carpet, the highly polished furniture, and the French silk wallpaper. It was a very pretty room, all done in blues and creams that might have been especially chosen to flatter blond Edith as she lay in the canopied bed. This was wasted on her at the moment, however. Edith, wincing, raised a wavering hand to shield her bruised eyes.

  Olivia returned to the bedside. “Let me look at you,” she said gently. She sat on the edge of the bed, pulled the coverlet back, and subjected Edith to a swift assessment, studying the injuries for the first time in the clear light of day. It had been difficult to assess the damage by candlelight. Now that she saw the extent of what Ralph had done, anger simmered within her. Her anger at Ralph was matched only by her astonishment that pretty little Edith, of all women, had had sufficient fortitude not only to run away with nothing but the clothes on her back, but to travel all the way to Chelsea in her condition.

  Olivia shook her head in amazement. “I cannot believe you attempted the journey here. You might have been bleeding internally. Whatever possessed you to take such a risk?”

  “Risk?” whispered Edith. “The risk was in staying, it seemed to me.”

  “Yes, but to come here—why? You and I barely know each other. What if you had misjudged me? What if I had refused to shelter you? For all you knew, I would side with my detestable brother against you.”

  Since Edith’s lower lip was cut, the wan smile that flickered at its corners faded quickly. “I was quite certain you would not. All the world knows that you are a champion of the oppressed and downtrodden. You are famous for it.”

  Olivia chuckled. “There is that, of course,” she agreed. “And he is only my half brother, after all. But they do say blood is thicker than water.”

  “I could not stop to think of that. I had nowhere else to go.”

  “But—your mother? Surely she resides somewhat closer than—”

  Edith’s fingers closed on Olivia’s wrist in a painful grip. “Oh, pray! Pray do not tell Mama I am here! She will send me back.” Her voice was sharp with rising panic.

  Olivia stared at Edith in disbelief. “No mother could send her child back to a villain who—”

  “She will! I know she will! She has told me as much. I appealed to her once before when—oh, pray! She must not discover where I am!”

  Edith was shaking with fear at the very thought. This was more disturbing than all the rest. One expected brutality from Ralph, but it was difficult to comprehend that Edith’s mother would join with him in victimizing her daughter.

  “Calm yourself,” Olivia said soothingly. “Have I not promised to keep you safe? I will do nothing to jeopardize your well-being. If your mother has told you she would send you back to your husband if you ran away, we must, by all means, keep her from discovering your whereabouts.”

  Edith sank back on the pillows again, seemingly reassured. “Thank you,” she said, in the thread of a voice. Tears welled up. “You are so kind. I was right to come here.”

  Olivia smiled, straightening the coverlet and pulling it over Edith’s shoulders. “You were right to come here,” she agreed. “And here you will stay, until we decide what to do with you. But all that is for the future. For the present, your sole task is to get well.”

  “I feel wretched,” Edith confessed. “Even worse today than yesterday.”

  “Do you? I’m afraid that’s to be expected, after jolting about in a carriage for six hours or more. One doesn’t feel the injuries while afraid for one’s life—a strange phenomenon, but typical, I assure you. Now that you know you are safe, you have leisure to notice how miserable you are.” Edith did not smile at this sally, but it was difficult to read the expression on such a swollen face. Olivia studied her for another moment. “Do you think you could sleep again, or shall I send up a tray for you?”

  “A tray, please, if you think it will help me get stronger.”

  “Good girl. I do indeed.” Olivia patted Edith’s uninjured hand. “Today will probably be the worst of it. I think no permanent damage was done. The only bones broken were in your finger, and now we’ve taped that up it should heal perfectly straight. Your pulse is strong and steady. Your color has improved—I think.” She smiled. “It’s hard to tell, of course, what the underlying color may be beneath those spectacular purples you are sporting.”

  Edith’s head moved restlessly on the pillow. “I can never repay you for your kindness.”

  “There’s no need. I know you would do the same for me.”

  The wan smile flickered briefly again. “But you would never need it.”

  “Well, no. Likely not.” Olivia looked mischievous. “I have never been the sort of female to whom misadventures occur. Or adventures of any sort, for that matter.”

  “I wish I were like you.” Edith sighed. “It must be wonderful to be you.”

  Olivia wrinkled her nose comically. “What, and wake up one day to find yourself a desiccated spinster? I suppose spinsterhood must sound rather appealing to you at the moment, but I promise you, it has its own set of drawbacks.”

  “But your life is so useful. And you are forever out in the world, doing things. Doing things that matter.”

  Olivia smiled at her earnestness. “I will admit that I enjoy my life. But it’s not suitable for everyone. You might find it a dead bore. Pray remember that I spend my days—and many of my nights!—doing charity work.”

  “Yes, but it’s your own charity,” Edith pointed out. Envy tinged her voice. “It must be very like owning a business, or an estate, or something of that sort. Women do not generally have an opportunity to manage something of their very own. We are not allowed to hold property, or enter into contracts, or do anything that might be considered important.”

  “No. Did you not know that? On a woman’s wedding day, everything that was formerly hers becomes her husband’s property.”

  “I knew it, but I—I w
asn’t an heiress, so I hadn’t thought what it would mean. A married woman owns nothing. Not even—not even her own body.” Edith’s voice sank to a defeated whisper. “I will be blamed for what Ralph did to me. He will say I provoked him. That I deserved it.”

  One of Olivia’s finely arched brows flew upward. “Let him say it. He will have to do so where you cannot hear him. I shall hide you for as long as you have need. And that, my dear, is a promise.”

  “But—are you not afraid?”

  “Pooh! Afraid of Ralph? What can he do to me, pray? He is unlikely to guess that you have come here. And if he does, so much the better. I doubt that he would dare, but I would enjoy it if he came to my home, roaring and threatening and breathing fire.”

  Edith’s trepidation was palpable. “Enjoy it?”

  “Yes, indeed.” A martial light sparkled in Olivia’s eyes. “It would give me great pleasure to give that brute a piece of my mind, and then show him the door.”

  “But what if—what if he strikes you?”

  “I shall have him locked up,” said Olivia promptly. “So let us hope he tries it. Bad Lord Badesworth has no authority over me, and I am not a nobody in Chelsea. If he raises a hand to me—or to you, while you are my guest—he will soon learn his mistake.”

  “How brave you are!”

  “Nonsense. I had to learn, long ago, to deal from strength when dealing with Ralph. There has never been any love lost between the two of us. Why do you think I am allowed to lead this peculiarly independent existence of mine? It is because the head of my family—Ralph—simply could not care less what becomes of me. As long as I do not ask him for money, he doesn’t care where I live or what I do. And that suits me down to the ground.”

  “How I wish I were as free of him as you are,” Edith murmured. But then she looked apprehensively at Olivia’s sympathetic countenance. “I know it is wrong of me to say so.”

  “On the contrary, it is perfectly understandable. I am fortunate, and I know I am. Most women are controlled by some man or other. There is almost always a father, a husband, a brother, or an uncle to claim authority. I am the only female I know who answers to no one.” Olivia’s eyes lit with amusement. “It’s a bit galling to think that many people pity me for my single state. Such impertinence! And so misplaced! I am, I believe, the happiest woman of my acquaintance. I am certainly the freest.”